


Things My Father Taught Me

by KRyn



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-17 03:15:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5851885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KRyn/pseuds/KRyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Of all the things my father taught me, the simplest lessons were the ones that ultimately helped me survive," Harold finally replied. "And yes, most, not coincidentally, involved birds."</p><p>"Share one with me?" Reese asked impulsively.</p><p>********************<br/>A gentle relationship story with just a touch of angst--and the added bonus of a flashback-ish story within the story--to begin the new year. The timeframe is a bit nebulous, set at some point after Shaw joins the team.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "In truth, I remember everything he ever taught me."

*************************************************************************

_In bed our yesterdays are too oppressive:_  
_if a man can only get up, though it be but to whistle or to smoke,_  
_he has a present which offers some resistance to the past—_  
_sensations which assert themselves against tyrannous memories._

***************************************************************************

John woke, years of training and painfully gained experience bringing him immediately to the full alertness that only a solider--or someone with a price on his head--could manage. Harold's side of the big bed was empty, the high thread-count sheets retaining only the faintest trace of warmth when Reese smoothed his hand over them. 

The townhouse Harold had brought him to the night before was quiet. He could hear the soft low hum of the furnace trying to warm the cool dwelling, but no sounds of anyone moving about. A glance out the window revealed a night-black sky. A fitful gust of wind shivered the windowpanes, but the howling gale that had accompanied them to bed had subsided.

John rose up on one elbow and grabbed his phone off the nightstand. A tap activated the screen, giving the time as 4:00 a.m., and casting enough light to scan the room. 

Harold's phone and glasses were missing from the nightstand on his side of the bed, but the suit he had worn the day before hung neatly on a hanger on the closet doorknob. A call from his Machine, which seemed to have no regard for time of day when sending them a new Number, might have sent his partner in search of his laptop. 

Reese felt a stab of disappointment. He'd been looking forward to waking with Harold.

They'd been lovers for several months, but it was the first time John had stayed to welcome the morning. Usually it was the demands of their work that pulled one or the other from bed after a quick, albeit satisfying tumble. But even on those rare occasions when time and responsibility weren't pressing at them, Reese had sensed a reluctance on Harold's part to extend their time together beyond an hour or two of intimacy. Oddly enough, he also seemed hesitant to part when the time came, lingering for another kiss, a trace of disappointment in his eyes. 

Nature had stepped in to change the pattern the previous evening. The weather had closed in just after their arrival, winds off the Atlantic shifting to drive bands of heavy snow across the City. With near blizzard conditions, Harold's warm solid weight draped over him, and a drowsy 'stay' murmured in his ear, Reese had slid contentedly into sleep after their last round of lovemaking. 

Given his bed partner's absence now, maybe that had been a mistake. Spending a few pleasant hours with a lover was vastly different from waking with one to the cold realities of a new day.

Reese tossed back the covers, feeling the tug of dried semen on his skin. He snagged his boxers off the floor and lightly scrubbed the still damp knit cotton over his groin and chest, removing the worst of it before tossing them aside. 

He gingerly rolled his right shoulder. Stiff and sore, but not bad, considering. His last stand with the thug who had intended to kill their Number the day before, had been a shootout on a rooftop. Kneecapping him had put a stop to the man's plans, but the slime had tumbled halfway off the edge. John had nearly dislocated his shoulder pulling the perp back up onto the roof. 

He found his clothes folded neatly over the seat of a chair--Harold's doing certainly, since John's last memory was of stripping out of them eagerly at the sight of his partner's bare skin. He pulled on the black trousers of his suit and slipped into his white shirt, leaving it unbuttoned. 

Chances were that Harold--so wise in the way of technology, but admittedly lacking in some of the niceties of human interaction--didn't even realize that it was rude to leave your lover to wake up alone. Reese's instincts weren't screaming 'danger', but he plucked the Sig-Sauer out from under his pillow and tucked it into the back waistband of his slacks anyway. 

Better safe than sorry. 

He slid his phone into his pocket and moved across the bedroom, toes sinking into sinfully thick carpet. The soft burble and hiss that was undeniably a coffee maker running a brew cycle reached his ears as he padded down the stairs. 

He found Harold in the softly lit kitchen. His laptop was open on the table, but his partner wasn't settled in front of it, deep in coding or research as John might have predicted. He stood staring out the window that overlooked the tiny fenced-in back yard. He wore a dark blue robe over sleep pants, bare toes curled a little against the cold tiled floor.

Reese paused, framed in the doorway, wondering whether his presence would be welcomed. "Harold." 

His partner twisted around abruptly. "John? Is something wrong?"

"You tell me," he rasped.

"I--" Harold hesitated, eyes narrowing. The light bulb suddenly seemed to go on. His shoulders slumped and he shook his head, lips pressed in a grim line. _"Io sono un pazzo,"_ he cursed softly. He quirked that odd sideways smile that wasn't a smile, regret clear in his eyes. "It would appear I owe you an explanation. Forgive me. I tend to rise as soon as I wake, no matter what the hour." 

Stiffly formal, but the sentiment of the apology was genuine, and it eased the knot of worry in John's gut. He crossed the room to join his partner, shivering when Harold slid his hands under his shirt, fingers cool against his skin. 

"You looked so peaceful...I didn't want to disturb you," Harold murmured.

Reese wrapped his arms lightly around his partner, pulling him closer. "You didn't...surprisingly." The fact that Harold _hadn't_ roused him when he'd left their bed said a great deal about the level of trust John's subconscious had placed in him. "Breaking the space-time continuum again?" 

Harold twitched a grin and leaned into him, pressing closer, a soft pleased sigh escaping as he laid his head against John's chest. They stood that way for a few minutes, content to just absorb each others presence.

"I started coffee," Harold said, finally breaking the silence. 

"Which _you_ don't drink."

Harold pulled back a little to look up at him. "But you do."

Reese decided at that moment that there would be more 'morning afters'. An early morning Finch was endearing; his cheeks and chin scruffy with stubble; the short, spiky hair on the top of his head looking like he'd dragged a hand through it instead of a comb. Despite the hour, Harold looked rested...younger. The stiffness of his spine seemed less pronounced, his muscles looser. His eyes were soft and fond behind the lenses of his glasses. His lips were... 

Too inviting. John leaned down and covered them with his own. 

Harold opened to him easily, with a soft moan of pleasure that matched John's own pleased bass rumble. The kiss was deep and extremely satisfying. There was no rush, no frantic need behind it. Just pure pleasure in the lazy dance of tongues, the soft pressure of lips, the transmission of affection. They kissed for the enjoyment of it, taking their time, like they had forever. Hands slid and gripped and caressed, not to arouse, but for the joy of simply being able to touch--although John's cock twitched in interest and he felt Harold's do the same.

When they finally broke apart, John was certain his heart was in his eyes.

Harold seemed similarly affected; his voice was low and husky when he whispered a belated, "Good Morning."

John glanced out the window. "Barely. Are you always up this early?"

"The curse of an active mind," Harold replied. "Once it kicks into gear, it's nearly impossible to shut it down. Even as a young child I would rocket out of bed at an insanely early hour, mind buzzing with ideas for some fantastic new invention I had designed in my dreams, or nearly shrieking with excitement because I'd resolved some problem that had me stumped the day before. By the time my father joined me, I'd have pages of sketches to show him, or the kitchen table would be filled with something I'd built out of the metal girders and connectors of my Erector set. I would chatter at him non-stop while he drank his first cup of coffee, trying to explain how my newest creation worked, or _would_ work some day."

Harold shook his head fondly. "He was always so patient. He would hear me out, then tousle my hair and turn to the task of making breakfast."

John was so busy absorbing every tidbit Harold was sharing, that he barely heard the teakettle on the stove begin to whistle. Fusco's digging, and his own, had only backtracked Harold's life to his early years at MIT. Before that it was a blank. Finch had never mentioned his family, much less his childhood. 

Becoming lovers hadn't really changed Harold's default setting when it came to guarding his secrets. John knew exactly how he liked his cock stroked, but still didn't know his favorite color. 

Maybe the time for careful interrogation was o-dark forty, because Harold's prickly attitude concerning personal information seemed absent now. He appeared completely at ease, raising up to place a kiss on John's lips before stepping away, his limp barely noticeable. He pulled two mugs from the cupboard, dropping a tea bag into one and filling the other nearly to the brim from the coffee pot. 

Harold handed him the steaming mug and turned back to the counter to add water from the kettle to the second mug. John took a cautious sip, then another deeper draught of the strong full-bodied drink, eyes widening in pleased surprise. 

"This is good." 

Harold smiled almost shyly. "My father's recipe. He always enjoyed a strong cup to start the day. I never acquired a taste for it. Nor did I need the caffeine kick it possesses." 

He turned back to his tea, dunking the bag slowly. "I learned to make it for him the day he almost burned our house down," he offered softly, twisting a little to meet John searching gaze. "He set a hot pad down on the gas stove, a little too close to an open flame and then... walked away, forgetting he'd left the stove on. It wasn't the first such occurrence of forgetfulness."

John took another sip of coffee, mulling over what Harold had implied about his father. "Alzheimer's?" he asked gently.

Harold nodded. "Early onset." He dropped a spoonful of sugar in his mug. "He was in his mid-forties when he began to show the first symptoms. They called it _'senility'_ back then." 

From the way his partner snarled the word and the angry clank of the spoon against the mug as Finch stirred his tea, John got the distinct impression that Harold still hated that term, and the hopelessness that accompanied it. 

"You must have been very young."

"Old enough," Harold answered a little defensively. "I learned a great deal from him in the time we had together."

"Such as?"

"Among other things, how to make the perfect omelet. Which is the highlight of my meager cooking skills, I'm afraid. If you're hungry...?"

Reese would have preferred to nibble on Harold, but he had long ago learned to eat when the opportunity presented itself. "Depends on how fast we need to get moving. Have you heard from your Machine?"

"Not as of yet. And there's a good chance we won't." Harold nodded toward his computer. "Much of the City is sitting under a blanket of snow."

A gust of wind rattled the window. John turned to see flakes starting to accumulate on the pane. He moved around the table and studied the weather map on the laptop monitor. "Nine inches already in Central Park." He whistled softly. "With eight to ten more projected. That'll make a mess of things."

"And hopefully delay any perpetrators from taking the step that would trigger a warning from the Machine. Miss Shaw sent a text late last night, indicating she was keeping Bear for another day. Something about wanting to see how he managed as a sled dog." He shrugged. "The larder is well stocked with provisions and I can monitor things from here as long as cell service doesn't go down. There's no reason to battle the elements..." He glanced away, "unless you'd prefer to be elsewhere." 

As an invitation it was awkward, but it was classic Finch in its practicality. And it sent a wave of warmth through Reese. 

A day off. A day off with Finch. Correction--a day off with Finch with the real possibility of spending the bulk of it in extremely pleasant pursuits. 

A day they wouldn't have to settle for a snatched kiss, or limit their interactions to a conversation over a phone line...to be able to touch whenever he wanted...

And if his partner continued to be in the mood to share? 

He'd be a fool not to accept. 

"I could eat."

It was amusing to watch Finch flit about the small kitchen, preparing their food with the same focused intensity he brought to his coding. John sat at the table, sipping his coffee and enjoying the show. 

The omelet, like the coffee, was excellent. The conversation--minimal--but the long stretches of silence between mundane requests to pass the salt or pepper shaker and compliments on the food were comfortable. As Harold gathered their empty dishes, Reese felt more relaxed and content than he had in years, warmed through and through by the sense of 'home' the simple domestic scene provoked. 

He wondered if this _was_ 'home' for Finch--or at least as close to a permanent residence as his hyper-vigilant partner allowed himself. There were no obvious clues--no stacks of bills or monthly magazines with labels proclaiming Harold 'fill-in-the-appropriate-alias' lived there; no carefully rinsed bottles and cans in the recycling bin--although given Harold's ability to cover his tracks, Reese hadn't expected to find any.

But unlike the other apartments and safe houses where they'd met, which could easily have been featured in photo layouts in _House Beautiful,_ the townhouse held the feeling of being lived in. There was a soft wool throw tossed carelessly over the arm of the couch in the living room that boasted the telltale slubs that only materialized from regular wear and tear. A short stack of books, spines creased with age and use, rested within easy reach on a table next to an upholstered armchair. John could easily envision Harold spending an hour or two ensconced in its comfortable support, book in hand, Bear curled at his slippered feet. 

Most telling was the ease in which Finch navigated the space. Not once while gathering the tools and ingredients for their breakfast had he hesitated the way one would in an unfamiliar environment; barely looking at the contents of drawers before pulling out utensils, bumping the refrigerator door closed with a practiced shift of the hip when he'd emerged from its depths laden with eggs and cheeses. He seemed as comfortable here as he did in the Library.

John grinned as he realized the townhouse shared the same neighborhood as the Lyric Diner.

When Finch waved off his offer to help with the cleanup with a flick of a soap-covered hand, John topped off his mug and wandered over to the window. If the sky had brightened as night moved toward dawn, it was barely perceptible. The snow continued to fall and swirl in miniature funnel clouds, reducing visibility even further. The temperature was apparently dropping as well, a haze of frost coating the inside corners of the windowpanes. Reese dragged his fingers across it, surprised when his disruption of the crystals revealed a small bird huddled on the outer sill. 

"Looks like one of your relatives doesn't have the sense to come out of the cold," he teased his partner. 

Harold joined him, flashing Reese a heatless glare over the rims of his glasses before sliding in front of John to peer intently at the bird. 

" _Haemorhous mexicanus..._ common House Finch," he pronounced. "His mate is probably around here somewhere, most likely in that group of bushes near the garage since it's a sheltered location. It's become common to see them year-long, even this far north. They're amazingly adaptive creatures, although he's probably cursing his ancestors who were foolish enough to get caught and transported here from the Southwest. In 1940, New York pet shop owners who had been selling them illegally released their birds in order to avoid prosecution. The birds survived and started to colonize the suburbs. Now they're a familiar sight across the continental U.S. and southern parts of Canada.

"There's a bag of bird seed in the garage," Harold added almost absently. "I should probably put some out after the storm lets up."

Reese tucked that new clue away in his mental binder of all things Finch. It suggested that Harold used this residence fairly frequently.

He set his mug on the inner sill and wrapped his arms around his partner from behind. "I haven't had a snow day since I was a kid," he murmured, nuzzling at the tender skin under Harold's ear.

Harold shivered and leaned back into the embrace. "And how did you spend it? I find it difficult to imagine you curling up with a book for the entire day."

John rested his chin on his partner's shoulder. "Well, the first thing I'd do, would be to crawl back under the covers. Want to join me?" 

He felt Harold tense. "I'm afraid the chances of my returning to sleep are quite slim."

There it was again--that strange combination of reluctance and desire. Reese decided to push his luck. "Who said anything about sleep?" Gently turning his partner, he cupped Harold's face in his hands, and delivered a kiss that left no doubt as to his intentions.

When they broke for breath, Harold licked kiss swollen lips tentatively, then nodded. "You present a compelling argument, Mr. Reese. Very well. Go on up. I'll join you shortly."


	2. Predator or Prey

**************************************************************************

_Lions are born knowing they are predators._  
_Antelopes understand they are the prey._  
_Humans are one of the few creatures on Earth given the choice._

**************************************************************************

 

John straightened up the bed and set his phone on the nightstand on his side. After a moment's consideration, he placed the Sig-Sauer next to the phone. Harold had never questioned Reese's habit of having a weapon immediately at hand, but John knew he was less than enthused about having one in bed with them. Given the likelihood that the most imminent danger was the snow piling up outside, Reese could comfortably accommodate his partner's preference. 

He wandered over to the window and studied the street. The only signs of life were a few faintly glowing rectangles on other nearby buildings, evidence of others who had risen early, whether to check on the progress of the weather, or simply because their jobs required it. There were rapidly filling tracks in the street from a couple of vehicles that had already braved the storm. 

Snow was falling steadily, big fat flakes backlit by the glow of the streetlights. The cars parked on either side were coated with a thick layer of the stuff. Harold's current black town car was parked in a garage at the rear of the property, but there would undoubtedly be a few hours of shoveling in John's future, unless Finch had a service for that kind of thing. Even if he did, it would be prudent to clear the front and back doors so that they could make a quick exit if they needed to. It would be a good work out, and wouldn't put too much strain on his shoulder.

Plus there was always the possibility of luring his partner into joining him for a hot shower, or some quality time in front of the fireplace he'd glimpsed in the small living room downstairs. 

Speaking of Harold...John's internal clock was telling him it had been ten minutes since he left the kitchen. More than enough time for Finch to have checked his computer for updates and finish his tea. More than enough time for Harold to have second thoughts about joining him. 

Still dressed, John stretched out on the bed on top of the covers, pondering the enigma that was his partner. Finch's personal boundaries were a bit like the tide, ebbing and flowing, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of what lurked underneath, then quickly covering it again. Part of Reese enjoyed the challenge, but it could be frustrating as hell, too. 

For as much of a control freak as he was about other aspects of his life, Harold was a generous, thoughtful lover. John was convinced he enjoyed that aspect of their relationship. So why was simply sleeping together, waking in each others arms not on the menu?

He let a few more minutes pass, and just when he had decided he was going to have to get up and hunt down his partner, John heard Harold's uneven tread on the stairs. 

Harold entered the bedroom carrying a tray laden with a bowl of melon slices and strawberries, a plate of sliced cheeses, a small clear glass carafe of what looked like some kind of juice, and two glasses. A thick hardcover book was trapped under one arm. He set the tray on a heavy wooden chest at the end of the bed and straightened, his eyes raking John's supine form from head to toe. 

John shivered involuntarily, a good portion of the blood in his body shooting straight to his cock, tenting the front of his slacks. Being the focus of Harold's undivided attention was a definite turn-on.

"I thought your 'snow day' plans involved being _under_ the covers, Mr. Reese," Harold observed with much of his normal acerbic dryness. He moved to his side of the bed to deposit the book on his nightstand, hungry gaze never leaving John. Finch had apparently left his reluctance behind in the kitchen. "Typically that involves fewer articles of clothing."

Reese nonchalantly crossed one arm behind his head, playfully fingering the button on his pants. "Thought I'd wait. I know how much you like getting into complex systems."

Harold removed his glasses and set them on the nightstand. "Is that a challenge, Mr. Reese?"

John ran his fingers down the zipper placket teasingly. "If you're up for it."

Harold leaned forward, deft fingers tracing an outline around John's eager cock. "It would appear _you're_ the one that's 'up', Mr. Reese. I doubt it would take much time to break through your defenses."

John flashed a snarky, shark like grin. "You're welcome to try."

*************

After a blowjob that left John wondering if he had any brain cells left, he gasped, "Your father didn't teach you _that._ " 

The puff of air that accompanied Harold's huff of laughter tickled John's oversensitive cock. 

"As far as I know, my father was strictly heterosexual. He might have enjoyed a dalliance or two with some of the town's widows, once my mother was gone, but even if he did lean in the other direction, small-town gossip being what it is, would have probably deterred him. For the most part his world revolved around the farm, and me. I'd like to think he would have accepted my following my heart, no matter which gender it preferred. For all his mid-western stubbornness, he was surprisingly open-minded."

Harold eased to the side of the bed, pulling a small package of wipes from the nightstand drawer. John thought about his own father, whom he'd lost at an early age. He'd been military through and through, and given the Armed Forces attitude toward 'queers' at the time, probably wouldn't have been happy to learn of his son's later same-sex relationships. 

Harold gently smoothed a wipe over John's cock and balls, catching the few drops of ejaculate he had missed when he'd licked him clean. 

"Mid-western?" Reese prompted, picking up the clue Harold had dropped.

That earned him a firm squeeze of his testicles and a warning glare not to press that line of questioning any further. Harold used another wipe to clean his hands then pushed to his feet, gathering their scattered clothing and draping the items over a chair before retrieving the tray from the foot of the bed. Reese dragged the covers up and scooted to the side so Harold could place it between them, steadying the carafe while his partner slid back into bed.

Harold wrapped a piece of green melon with a paper-thin slice of pale yellow cheese and brought it to John's lips. Despite having eaten just a short time ago, the first bite of sweet melon and smoky cheese made Reese groan in appreciation, and elicited a chuckle from his lover. Harold poured a few inches of juice into one glass and took a sip before leaning in for a kiss. The tart taste of cranberries was the perfect accompaniment to Harold's own flavor and John chased after more of it hungrily.

It was a surprisingly easy thing: to ignore the world outside their softly lit cocoon of warmth, feeding one another bites of fruit and cheese, and stealing berry-laced kisses until plate, bowl, and carafe were empty. Reese lifted the tray off the bed and placed it on the floor, then rolled to his side, facing Harold once more. 

Harold adjusted his pillows to offer better support to his neck, then reached out to trace the curve of John's jaw. "Simple pleasures," he murmured, eyes shining.

Reese caught his hand before he could pull it back, placing a kiss on Harold's open palm. "Another lesson of your father's?"

Harold nodded slowly. "He was a simple man in many ways. He had no formal education beyond high school, but he loved to read. Even after dementia had stolen most of his memories, he could still quote fragments of his favorite books.

"He understood people better than I ever will, and had an innate connection to the land--something else I never managed to acquire. I could tear a machine apart, find what was wrong and put it back together better than new, but he knew the cycle of the seasons, the nature of animals and--"

"The habits of birds?" 

Harold tensed, eyes graying warily. John held his breath, relaxing only when his partner did. 

"Of all the things my father taught me, the simplest lessons were the ones that ultimately helped me survive," Harold finally replied. "And yes, most, not coincidentally, involved birds."

"Share one with me?" Reese asked impulsively.

Harold was still and silent for a full minute. Then he shifted positions, rolling to his back and leaving a gulf of space between them. "Would you mind turning off the light?"

Mentally cursing himself for pushing too hard and ruining the moment, John reached for the lamp on his side. One click and the room was drenched in darkness, only the faint illumination from the streetlights outside yielding enough light to separate his partner's profile from the rest of the room's shadows. Reese was trying to cobble together something to say to break the awkward silence when Harold's hand found his under the covers, lacing their fingers together.

"It was a late fall day..." His lover's smooth tenor voice filled the room. "The kind of day when you can taste the crispness of the air..."

> "Dad, what kind of birds are those?" asked seven-year-old Harold, squinting up at the two dark shapes circling in the sky over the fields.
> 
> His father joined him at the open doorway of the equipment shed. "Turkey vultures."
> 
> "Vultures?" Harold glanced up at his father. "Those are raptors, right? Carrion eaters?" He grimaced, abruptly remembering one of the more grisly details about the birds. "They eat dead stuff."
> 
> His father laid his hand on Harold's shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. "That's right. They're scavengers. Part of nature's clean-up crew. One of the biggest birds you'll see around here. When they're soaring like that, riding the air currents, it's easy to mistake them for eagles."
> 
> Harold squinted up at the sky again. "How do you tell the difference?" 
> 
> "See the way their wings are bent in kind of a 'V' shape? That's one way. The undersides of their flight feathers on the trailing edge and wing tips are usually lighter colored. They have bald red heads, too." 
> 
> "Wish they were closer, so I could see them better." Harold looked up at his father again, surprised at the frown on his face. 
> 
> "Remind me to set up an appointment with Dr. Wells, son. We should get those eyes of yours checked. See if you need glasses." 
> 
> "I can read just fine, dad," Harold protested. 
> 
> "There's a world beyond books, Harold." He smiled fondly and tapped his son lightly on the nose. "Vultures have a better sense of smell than you do, too. Even from that height they can scent a dead animal, or one that's injured and close to death." His father watched the birds for a few moments, then sighed. "We should probably go see what they're interested in. Ralph Perkins down the road said he lost a half-dozen chickens and one of his prize roosters to coyotes over the last few weeks."
> 
> "Would coyotes go after a baby deer?" Harold asked worriedly, thinking of the tiny fawn they'd seen frolicking at its mother's side in the cleared cornfield just a few days earlier.
> 
> "They might," his father answered quietly. "If it got injured or strayed too far from the protection of its mother." He squeezed Harold's shoulder again. "But I wouldn't be too worried. Most creatures, even young ones, have pretty good instincts when it comes to self-preservation. Prey animals in particular instinctively know to watch for predators. They're smart enough to stay quiet and still when danger comes around. They know when to run, and they know when they have to fight back in order to survive."
> 
> "Do people have those instincts, too?"
> 
> "They do. Nowadays we don't respond to their prodding the same way our early ancestors did, but they're still there inside of us. That prickle at the back of your neck you get when something just doesn't 'feel' right, or the spike of adrenaline that kind of electrifies your muscles when lightning suddenly strikes or thunder booms? Those are your survival instincts talking to you."
> 
> "So those instincts are kind of like an early warning system."
> 
> "That's a good way to look at it." His father pointed toward the vultures circling overhead. " _You_ don't have to worry about predators like those raptors, but you will encounter people who will want to carve a place for themselves farther up the food chain, sometimes at your expense."
> 
> "Like the bullies at school," Harold murmured. 
> 
> His father frowned down at him. "You having problems, son?"
> 
> Harold considered his words carefully. Being an 'egghead' and the teacher's favorite hadn't won him any points with some of his peers. He'd managed to find ways to avoid the ones that thought he needed to be taken down a notch or two, just by observing where and when they hung out and making sure he was somewhere else. The school library had become the perfect refuge, the librarian always greeting his offer to help shelve books or add new entries to the card catalog with an appreciative smile. It felt a little cowardly to admit he was solving the problem by hiding where his adversaries would never tread. 
> 
> "Not really. It's not that hard to outthink them."
> 
> His father huffed a laugh. "No, I suppose it wouldn't be. Not for you." His expression turned serious again. "Your instincts and this," he tapped Harold lightly on the temple, "are your greatest strengths. Bigger and stronger isn't always an advantage. Turn the tables, and the predator can easily become prey."
> 
> Harold nodded, tucking that idea away for later consideration. 
> 
> His father tousled his hair, then reached down to snag an empty seed sack from a pile near the door. He handed it to Harold before pulling his shotgun from the hooks on the wall. Harold frowned, but didn't voice an objection. Shotguns and rifles were commonplace on farms in their area, just another piece of equipment kept as a precaution and for protection. Harold understood the need, but still didn't like them--especially didn't like the end results that came from pointing one at a living creature and pulling the trigger. 
> 
> He followed his father out to the fields, gaze shifting to the eyes in the sky occasionally as they searched for the vultures' prey. On the edge of a plot of corn they hadn't yet turned under, his father halted, hand spread in warning. Harold stopped mid-step, holding his breath and listening hard. There was a rustle and the snap of dried vegetation, then silence. 
> 
> His father glanced back, one finger raised to his lips, then slid into one of the rows, barely making a sound as he moved forward. Harold followed, trying to do the same, halting just a dozen feet in when his father again raised his hand. 
> 
> When his father lowered himself to one knee, Harold crept closer, thrumming with excitement. He tucked himself in close to his father and peered around him, trying to see what they'd found. 
> 
> It took nearly a minute to pick out the shape of a large bird on the ground, its dappled coloration almost a perfect match to the dried cornstalks and rich brown soil. Harold immediately identified it as a Red Tailed Hawk; an adult based on its size; male given its rust red tail feathers. It was crouched nearly flat to the ground, its left wing tucked tight against its body, it's right wing half-extended and bent at an odd angle. The bird's eyes were open, round gold orbs with a dark pinpoint center, but it was completely still. 
> 
> Red Tails were common in the area, but Harold had never seen one this close up. "He's beautiful," he murmured in awe.
> 
> "That he is." 
> 
> "Are you sure he's alive? He's not moving at all." 
> 
> His father nodded. "He's playing possum right now. Sizing us up. Trying to decide how much of a threat we are. He's a smart one. Chose a good spot to try to hide. Chances are even those vultures wouldn't have picked up on his presence if he hadn't been moving around. If he's truly grounded, though, hiding here won't protect him from predators who run on four feet."
> 
> "Like the coyotes," Harold whispered grimly. "We need to help him."
> 
> "Might be kinder to send him on way, son. If that wing's broken--"
> 
> "But it might not be. We won't know until we try. Please, Dad?"
> 
> His father studied the bird for a few moments, then turned that same measuring gaze on his son. "You remember what I've taught you about wounded animals." 
> 
> "Stay calm. Make no sudden moves. Show no fear." 
> 
> "All right. We'll see what we can do."
> 
> His father laid the shotgun on the ground and took the seed sack from Harold, pressing a hand on his knee firmly as a signal to stay put. As he rose to his feet and started to move forward, the hawk erupted into motion, rising partway off the ground with a hoarse screaming cry that jangled Harold's nerves. Its good wing extended to beat at the ground in an attempt to fly, but all the bird managed to do was tip and scoot itself sideways. It subsided to the ground, head turned toward Harold's father, curved beak partly open, deadly talons digging rents in the soil.
> 
> "Talk to him, son," his father murmured as he moved to the bird's left so he could come up on it from behind. "Give him something besides me to focus on."
> 
> "Hey fella," Harold crooned softly. The hawk's head swiveled in his direction, gold gaze defiant. "That's right. You just pay attention to me. We're not going to hurt you. We want to help."
> 
> His father tossed the seed bag over the bird. It screamed in rage and tried to surge upwards again, but his father deftly gathered the fabric around its body, and gently but firmly pinned it to ground. After a few moments, it ceased its struggles. Only then did his father look up, a quick nod beckoning Harold closer. 
> 
> "He's strong. You think you can hold him while I take a look at that wing?"
> 
> "I can do it." Harold knelt down and slid his hands underneath his father's. He could feel the heat emanating from the bird's surprisingly sturdy body through the thin bag. 
> 
> His father eased the bag away from the hawk's right side, exposing the wing. The bird keened again, more distress than anger in its tone this time, and shifted under Harold's hands, its head popping free of the covering. 
> 
> "Easy," Harold murmured. The hawk's head turned toward the sound of his voice.
> 
> "Mind his beak and those talons," his father warned. "He might be down, but he can still do a lot of damage."
> 
> Harold stared into the depths of the bird's gold unblinking eye, felt the hawk shudder, its heart pounding. "He's not going to hurt me," he said with conviction. 
> 
> The hawk let out a soft hoarse 'keeee' as if in agreement. 
> 
> "That's right," Harold said, shifting position a little so the bird could see him better. "Dad's going to take a look at your wing. See what's wrong so we can get you flying again." He glanced at his father hopefully. "He will fly again, won't he?"
> 
> "Looks like he got fouled up in some abandoned fishing line. Somehow got it wound around the wing joint and his leg and cinched tight. If he didn't do too much damage fighting against it, he might be all right to fly." His father dug in his pocket, pulled out a Swiss Army knife and thumbed out the tiny scissors. "Keep on talking to him while I cut him free. Keep his mind occupied. That'll help keep him calm."
> 
> So Harold talked while his father worked, telling the bird how handsome he was, how brave. The hawk twitched and tensed with each snip of the scissors, but his piercing gaze never shifted from Harold's face. 
> 
> "Last piece," his father warned. He braced the right wing with one hand and tugged the final length of the tangled fishing line free. "Hold him." He eased the wing outward into its natural position and then bent it gently back toward the bird's body. 
> 
> The hawk twitched under Harold's grasp and completed the motion his father had begun, tucking the wing in against its right side. 
> 
> "Won't know for sure until he uses it, but I don't think there's going to be any lasting damage," his father said with a tight smile. 
> 
> Harold grinned in delight. "You hear that, fella? You're gonna be fine."
> 
> His father slid his hands under Harold's. "Back away now, and we'll see." 
> 
> Harold reluctantly did as directed, lingering just long enough to brush one fingertip down the back of the bird's head. As soon as Harold had moved several feet away, his father lifted the seed sack off the bird and cautiously circled around to join his son. 
> 
> The hawk's head swiveled, tracking the movement, but it made no attempt to spread its wings. 
> 
> Harold clutched at his father's arm. "How come he's not trying to fly?" 
> 
> "Give him a minute."
> 
> Harold dutifully counted to sixty in his head. The bird still hadn't moved. "Come on," he urged the hawk softly. "You can do it."
> 
> The bird twitched its head just a fraction to the side. Then it slowly spread its wings. The right one extended a little slower than the left, but not by much. The hawk ducked it's head and tweaked at a couple of feathers on the right wing, then fanned both slowly before pulling them partway back toward its body. 
> 
> "Dad--"
> 
> "Just wait, son."
> 
> No sooner than the words had left his mouth, the hawk gathered himself, talons digging deep into the dirt, legs bending. His wings snapped out and up, and with one great downward sweep he launched upward with a screaming cry. Harold's father pulled him back, but he still felt the rush of displaced air as the raptor's long curved wings beat hard strokes, striving for the sky. 
> 
> Harold danced out of his father's grasp, tracking the bird's flight as it gained altitude. "He's flying, Dad! He's flying!" 
> 
> His father turned a slow circle, watching the bird as it turned to coast overhead. Harold laughed in delight as the hawk dove down toward them, then shot upward, barreling past the two soaring vultures with a scream of defiance. Mere seconds later, he was out of sight.
> 
> "Take that, you stinky vultures!" Harold cheered. Then he spun and hugged his father. "We did it. We saved him."
> 
> "You did most of the work, son," his father murmured, returning the embrace. "I'm proud of you." He eased back a little and studied Harold closely. "You did take a risk, though. Remember those instincts we were talking about earlier?"
> 
> "Flight or fight. I remember." Harold countered. "But he didn't really want to fight, Dad. He was just scared. He didn't understand what was happening, but deep down he knew he was safe with us. That we weren't going to hurt him, or cage him."
> 
> "Maybe so. But just because things turned out fine this time, doesn't mean it will the next time. I want your promise you won't try something like that on your own." 

"I _couldn't_ have done it on my own," Harold said, his voice modulating smoothly out of 'story mode' into his normal speech patterns. " I needed a partner." He squeezed John's hand. "Just like I need one now."

There were no words that wouldn't cheapen what Harold had just shared, so Reese let action speak for him. He eased himself on top of his partner, Harold spreading his legs to allow him to settle between them. Bearing the bulk of his weight on his forearms, John leaned in to kiss Harold gently, but thoroughly.

When he drew back, Harold reached up to touch John's wrenched shoulder. "You've reminded me of that hawk since the first day we met face to face," he murmured, trailing fingertips lightly down Reese's right arm. "Wounded, but defiant." He offered a sweet smile. "Beautiful."

"You weren't afraid of me. Not then...not the next morning at the hotel. You should have been."

"I've never been afraid of you, John, not even when you had your arm at my throat." Harold smoothed the silver strands at Reese's temple. "But I have been afraid _for_ you. The way you fly straight into danger. I confess in those early weeks, I wondered whether I had given you a purpose, or if I had provided you with the means to the end you'd been seeking."

Reese had to admit Harold's concerns had been well founded. He had faced down Detective Stills in Wheeler's apartment lobby without a care as to whether he would come out of the altercation alive. He'd chosen to stay after that first case partly because Finch and his mysterious secretiveness offered a spark of interest in a world gone flat and colorless, but also because his crusade to save the Numbers might mean a quick end. John hadn't given a thought to the fact that he was still a far cry from his best fighting shape when he'd gone one on one with the assassin that had been hired to kill Theresa Whitaker. Keeping their young Number alive had been the only thing on his mind. 

Giving Megan Tillman back her life, and rescuing Judge Gate's son had been a turning point, making him realize that some good could come from his past and his skills.

But it had been Harold's recommendation of Eggs Benedict, an extension of trust he hadn't expect to receive from his paranoid employer, that had truly made him consider the possibilities of a future that stretched beyond the next deadly confrontation. 

Ironic, considering Harold's fatalistic projection of their ultimate demise.

Moving from employer/employee to partners in the fullest sense of the word hadn't altered John's tendency to jump head first into a situation, no matter how lopsided the odds and how outgunned, but now he did it with a purpose underwritten by devotion, not a death wish.

"You gave me something to live for," John murmured, rubbing his check against the mat of soft grey and brown hair on his lover's chest, nosing for a nipple to tongue. 

Harold arched into the caress; a soft gasp of pleasure accompanying the press of John's hips as their cocks slid against one another.


	3. Quieting the Mind

*******************************************************************************

_We’re both so fucking broken that I understand our strange attraction,  
a push-pull magnetism born of similar scars._

*******************************************************************************

John's second waking of the day was everything he'd hoped for from the first: a slow slide into awareness, supported by Harold's warmth spooned up behind him. Reese had been asleep long enough for the day to advance a few hours, pale snow-filtered light bathing the bedroom and flattening the shadows. He lay still, instinctively scanning for danger, but nothing twigged as troublesome, and he allowed himself to relax. 

Safe and sound. Novel concepts for men like them. 

Harold's breathing was slow and even, a soft puff of air tapping gently against John's back with each exhale. So much for his partner's assertion that he wouldn't, or couldn't go back to sleep. Reese was silently congratulating himself on proving Finch wrong, when Harold suddenly jerked and sucked in a lungful of air--a loud rising inhalation that choked off in a sob and an uncoordinated flail of limbs.

Reese reached back, grabbing Harold at the hip. _"Breathe,"_ he ordered, spreading his fingers for more leverage to hold his lover in place. Harold's fist pounded against his back, but John held firm, shifting backward for more skin on skin contact. Harold's heart was beating so hard it shook him, and the grip he locked around John's arm made Reese grit his teeth. 

"Breathe," he commanded again.

Harold butted his head against the bony ridge of John's spine, but Reese finally heard an inhale that wasn't filled with panic. 

"Again," he rasped, filling his own lungs from deep in his diaphragm, holding the air for a count of three, then exhaling slowly. 

Harold's breath whooshed out, and he dragged in another lungful with a hiccup and a shudder that wracked both of them. Reese leaned harder against him, willing Harold to pick up his breathing rhythm. Another hitching breath, and another, and then Harold finally fell into sync, inhales and exhales matched to John's. Reese released his hold on his partner's hip slowly, changing to a soothing repetitive stroke. 

Another shudder rippled through his partner, tensing muscles again. 

"Stay." Half order, half plea. Reese was dead certain that if Harold left the bed, they'd never share one again.

He felt as much as heard Harold's inarticulate protest, a garbled growl of sound and exhaled despair. 

Like he was drowning. Or his mind was. 

His mind.

Inspiration struck. "Tell me about that bird," John urged. "The finch."

"I--"

"What's it eat? How many eggs does it lay?"

"S-s-eeds...buds..."

"What else?"

"B-berries...vegetable matter...s-small fruits summer and fall...a few insects...aphids. The young...the young are fed on regurgitated seeds. They lay...four to five eggs. Pale blue, with black and lavender dots mostly at the larger end. Incubation time is 13 to 14 days. Both parents feed the nestlings who leave the nest 12 to 15 days after hatching. The female does most of the nest building..."

Begun in a bare stuttering whisper, the recitation grew smoother and Harold's voice strengthened the longer he spoke. Reese focused on the gradual melting of tension and the slowing of his lover's heartbeat rather than the facts that spewed forth. 

He ached for his partner. If this was happening with any regularity, it certainly explained Harold's reluctance to share his bed. What had he called it earlier? The 'curse' of an active mind? That once all that brilliance clicked into gear, it was almost impossible to shut down? That had probably been a boon when he was an innocent child and later when he was focused on building the Machine, but with what he'd lived through since? The stress of what had been years of hiding from the government? The dangers and uncertainty they faced on a daily basis? 

"...small bodied, with fairly large beaks and somewhat long, flat heads, their wings are short, making the tail seem long in comparison. Often confused with the House Sparrow, they are differentiated by..."

Reese had first hand knowledge of the ugly chum churned up by the subconscious, particularly in that phase between sleep and waking; the place where horrors dwell. He'd lost count of how many times he'd woken in the same state--too many times with a gun in his hand, finger on the trigger. 

Harold's monologue slowly petered out, replaced by brittle, embarrassed silence. Figuring his partner wasn't yet ready to face him, Reese ceased his stroking, leaving his hand splayed across Harold's hip. He reluctantly shifted his weight forward until he lay on his side again, their bodies no longer touching, hoping his partner wouldn't choose to bolt. He practically held his breath, waiting out what seemed like an eternity, until he felt Harold cover his hand with his own. Moments later, Harold eased forward enough to rest his head against John's back. 

John let the still awkward silence stretch for a few more minutes before breaking it. "Nightmare or memory?"

"Is there a difference?" 

The bleak tone of his response worried John more than the panic attack had. It occurred to him then, that he did have something to offer that might ease his partner's pain. Let him know John battled the same demons. 

A sharing of his own. 

"One of my last missions before 9-11 was a disaster from the get-go," he began. "A classic cluster-fuck. There were three teams of us, tasked with extracting a group of non-combatants who were being held by insurgents. Women and children. Intel was bad. We lost a full team of men when we dropped right in the middle of a firefight. Lost most of the second and two of my team battling our way through." 

He paused, fighting to keep his voice even and calm. "We managed to reach our objective, but we were too late. The rebels had killed everyone. Slit their throats. Five women and nine innocent children."

He heard Harold's soft quick inhale, then felt a gentle, comforting nudge against his spine. 

"We didn't even have the chance to give them a proper burial," John murmured. "It was a pitched battle all the way back to the pickup point. Brutal, hand to hand fighting. I snapped the neck of one of the insurgents before he could gut me."

Harold shifted a little closer, his fingers spreading to lace with John's.

"I took a two day leave after we got back. I woke up in a cold sweat with that rebel's last curse in my ears...and my fingers inches from Jessica's neck. I filed my termination papers the next week. I wasn't going to let that darkness I carried inside endanger her. Not that it mattered in the end. The work I did with the CIA created an oil slick that I still dream I'm drowning in." 

Reese slowly rolled over, Harold shifting position just enough to give him the space to lie on his back. John gazed up at his partner, giving his fingers a gentle squeeze. "We've both seen too much...lost too much. Pushed the ugliness and the hurt inside. But it doesn't stay there. It comes back to bite you in the ass when you let your guard down." 

Harold closed his eyes and ducked his head. Reese waited him out. Finally, Harold nodded and brought their clasped hands to his lips, placing a kiss on John's scarred knuckles. When he opened his eyes again, Reese was relieved to see that the shadows that had darkened them had fled, replaced with a glint of curiosity. 

"What made you ask me about the finch?" 

"I wanted to give you something to focus on. Something familiar."

"Familiar," Harold murmured. "That it was." His face pinched unhappily. "What you witnessed wasn't a panic attack in the classic sense. I'm prone to hypnopompic episodes upon waking. Transitioning directly out of REM sleep, I experience very vivid sensory imagery. Scents. Sounds. Sometimes it manifests as three-dimensional geometric patterns suspended in the air."

Harold offered a tight smile. "Nathan used to joke that I'd created the Machine in my sleep. In truth, he wasn't far off. Research has proven that some of the creative insights attributed to dreams actually happen in that moment of awakening from REM stage sleep."

"If I wake from a _light_ sleep, what I experience is markedly different. Sometimes it feels like I'm falling, or I have the sense there is someone in the room with me. I'm often confused. Highly emotional. And my language skills are impaired.

"Our clinical understanding of REM sleep cycles is rather recent. Even now, children experiencing the latter type of episodes tend to be diagnosed with what's called Night Terrors. When _I_ was a child, the doctor assured my father that it was normal to have vivid nightmares. That what I was experiencing was just the result of an overstimulated mind." 

He shook his head in disgust. "I think he prescribed less sugar before bed."

This time it was John who pulled their joined hands in for a kiss. 

"Fortunately, my father didn't consider it normal," Harold continued. "He lost a lot of sleep, sitting at my bedside trying to determine what was triggering the episodes. In one respect, the doctor was right--it _was_ 'normal' for me, if this," he tapped his temple, "had a chance to start churning. My father never discovered how to stop one of those less pleasant awakenings, but he found a way to deal with the fall out. He would get me talking...focused on something. Quieting the mind, he called it. Birds were a natural subject matter.

"He also found that if he simply let me get up right away from a dream, no matter what time of the night, that I could channel all the things buzzing around into my head in a positive direction."

"That's why you left the bed so early this morning," Reese murmured. 

"Yes. I woke to a dream of you resting beside me." Harold's lips curved in a genuine smile. "Something I've wanted for a long time." His smile faded a little. "True Night Terror experiences tend to disappear at the onset of adolescence. When my episodes continued to occur...I learned to adapt. Of course when I first went into hiding from the government, I was never sure if I was imagining a dark, menacing figure standing over me, or whether it was real. 

"And the possibility of having a bad episode affected my ability to spend a full night with a lover. The first time I spent the entire night with Nathan, who was fond of an early morning round of sex and then a nap before starting the day, I woke like I did just now. He ended up on the floor, nursing a sprained wrist and some interesting bruises. It wasn't the end of our physical relationship, but I never attempted to simply sleep with him again. He learned to accept it as one of my idiosyncrasies. "

"And Grace?" John prodded gently. "Those years with her?"

"Grace slept the sleep of the innocent, and typically woke at the same hour each morning. I could leave our bed without disturbing her and work on the programming for the Machine, or later, some other project, rejoining her before she woke. Books have always been another tool that quiet my mind, so I kept one within easy reach for lazy Sunday mornings.

"After Nathan was killed, and my nightmares became reality...even if there _had_ been someone I trusted enough to be intimate with, I couldn't in good conscience subject them to...this." 

"You just needed the right partner." Reese reached up to cup Harold's cheek. "For future reference, you should keep in mind that I've been known to come out of a sound sleep swinging. Another reason to work on your self-defense skills. And no matter what bed we're in, my side will _always_ be the one closest to the door."

"That presumes--"

"That I'll be spending the night on a regular basis. The entire night."

The hint of a smile twitched one corner of Harold's lip. 

"You know what else helps quiet the mind?" John asked, gently tugging Harold to lie on top of him. "Endorphins."

"I'm familiar with endorphins and their relation to pain management," Harold countered, the softness in his eyes belying the skepticism of his tone. "However I don't believe there are any decisive studies indicating their veracity as a sleep aid." 

"Then let's do our own research," John suggested, drawing Harold down into a kiss.

 

******************************  
_Some days I wake up_  
and all I feel  
are the fractures  
in the flesh  
that covers  
the only me  
I've ever known.  
Some days,  
it's those exact  
fissures  
that let the light  
hiding inside me  
pour out  
and cover  
in gold  
everyone  
that found enough beauty  
in the cracks  
to stand  
close.  
******************************

 

Acknowledgements

"In truth, I remember everything he ever taught me." -- POI episode, "If-Then-Else." Additional dialogue, characters and references from other POI episodes used without intent of copyright infringement. 

“In bed our yesterdays are too oppressive: if a man can only get up, though it be but to whistle or to smoke, he has a present which offers some resistance to the past—sensations which assert themselves against tyrannous memories.” --George Eliot, _Adam Bede_

Io sono un pazzo -- italian-English translation: "I am a fool."

“Lions are born knowing they are predators. Antelopes understand they are the prey.  
Humans are one of the few creatures on Earth given the choice.” --Patrick H.T. Doyle

“We’re both so fucking broken that I understand our strange attraction, a push-pull magnetism born of similar scars.” -- Ann Aguirre, _Grimspace_

For further explanations of Hypnopompic states : https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hypnopompic

“Some days I wake up  
and all I feel  
are the fractures  
in the flesh  
that covers  
the only me  
I've ever known.  
Some days,  
it's those exact  
fissures  
that let the light  
hiding inside me  
pour out  
and cover  
in gold  
everyone  
that found enough beauty  
in the cracks  
to stand  
close.”  
\--Tyler Knott Gregson

**Author's Note:**

> A gentle relationship story with just a touch of angst--and the added bonus of an flashback-ish story within the story--to begin the new year. The timeframe is a bit nebulous, set at some point after Shaw joins the team.
> 
> By late third season, we have canon to support Harold's poor sleep habits. It's inferred that he suffers from insomnia, brought on by the stress and danger of their current situation. I wondered, though, if he hadn't always had poor sleep patterns--exceptionally gifted individuals often do. 
> 
> In doing some research, I discovered there was a real sleep 'disorder' called Hypnopomp. A Hypnopompic state is the state of consciousness leading out of sleep, (as opposed to a Hypnagogic state, which occurs while one is falling asleep). Individuals who experience a hypnopompic state report vivid sensory hallucinations, often experience the sense of falling, or of someone--often menacing--in the room with them. 
> 
> That concept, and the recent massive blizzard in New York, gave birth to this story.


End file.
